II. First days

The first time you saw her washing linen at the stone basin, the sun had not yet reached your windows. You had woken out of habit—there was something about the air just before sunrise that always pulled you from sleep. Outside, the forest was slowly earning the name of the morning. Mist curled along the ground, brushing against the cottage walls, and the trees murmured with the soft voices of waking birds.

She was already working. Of course she was.

She looked small and rigid. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, half hidden beneath a plain brown dress that hung too loosely on her frame. She stood at the basin carved into the back wall of the house, scrubbing shirts in icy water with quick, almost angry strokes. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, her forearms red from the cold.

You didn’t intend to sneak up on her—but you moved quietly by habit. Insects don’t care for boots or sudden motion. You stopped under the old oak in the garden, arms full of pressed ferns wrapped in muslin. You were supposed to bring them inside, but something about the steady rhythm of the fabric against the stone held you in place.

She didn’t react to your presence. Either she hadn’t heard you—or, more likely, she had and chose not to respond. Servants were taught not to acknowledge presence unless spoken to.

You cleared your throat.

Her hands froze, suddenly and sharply. The linen twisted in her grip. Her shoulders tensed as if bracing for instruction—or something worse. Then she turned. Her eyes were wide and unsure.

“Good morning, master,” she said softly and dipped her head in a small bow.

“Good morning, Sullyoon,” you said. “Uh… you may use warm water. If it helps.”

Her voice was quiet, rough from disuse. “Thank you.”

That simple word made something tighten in your chest.

A few silent seconds passed. She resumed scrubbing—not with less effort, but with less violence.

You turned toward the moss patch beneath the elm, kneeling to unwrap your bundle. The maidenhair fern curled like a sleeping creature, damp with morning air. You dipped your pen into ink and began to sketch it in your notebook, trying not to glance too often at her hands.

You both continued your work, side by side in silence. You found yourself curious about her. You hoped she didn’t mind you sitting nearby. You hoped she didn’t think you were strange for that. But she showed no reaction—not a single flicker of thought. You weren’t exactly worried… but it wasn’t a good sign either.

It felt like trying to speak to a wall.

You went on with your day in complete silence. Sullyoon minded her own business. Somehow, she always found something to do. 

In the afternoon, you went back to your studio to complete your notes. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long, dappled shadows across the polished wooden floor. The study was quiet, save for the soft scrape of cloth on wood. 

Being the clumsy person you were, you spilled a whole bottle of ink on the floor. 

You were on your knees, sleeves rolled up, rubbing at a stubborn stain on the floorboards. The room was sparse, but orderly bookshelves lined with well-thumbed volumes, a sturdy desk cluttered with notes and dried flowers, a simple bed neatly made in the corner.

This was the sort of space your uncle would have loved.

You probably got your character from him. Like you, he didn’t care much for aristocratic life. The rigid etiquette, the hollow smiles at those strange gatherings where everyone pretended to adore one another. The constant presence of servants, hovering like shadows, waiting to tie your shoes or pour your drink—as if you were some fragile, incompetent child. He always said it dulled the instincts. That it made people soft.

Your father had called him a wild cat, but he secretly admired him. He’d vanish into the woods for days and return carrying the carcass of some animal he’d tracked, or a satchel of strange roots and herbs no one could name.
“You should do things for yourself,” he once told you, handing you a knife that felt far too large for your hands. 

“Because when the people you depend on are gone, what will you do then?”

He taught you how to hunt a rabbit, which, thinking about it, wasn’t the best thing to teach a seven-year-old. But more than that, he taught you responsibility—real responsibility. That if you broke something, you fixed it. No excuses. No waiting around for someone else to clean up after you.

Which was why you were here now, scrubbing the floor like a fool because you’d been careless enough not to tighten the cap of your flask. The ink had spilled and bled across the boards in a dark, blotchy mess. You could still smell it: metallic, bitter. And with every pass of the cloth, you muttered something under your breath that your uncle would’ve approved of but your mother definitely wouldn’t.

Your knees ached. Your fingers were cramping. But you didn’t stop. This was yours to fix.

Sullyoon paused at the doorway, watching quietly. Her eyes followed the steady movement of your hands, the way you bent low to the floor with focused care. No one wearing a shirt like that had ever knelt like this before, and no one had ever rolled up the sleeves of such a fine shirt.

He’s cleaning. Without asking me.He thinks I’m useless. That I can’t even do the smallest thing right.

Her heart pounded. She could not bear to be seen as idle, or worse, a disappointment. Before you noticed, she stepped inside, clutching a worn cloth she’d found folded in a drawer. “Let me,” she said, voice trembling. “I should be doing this.”

You glanced up, “Huh?”

She dropped to her knees beside you, hands shaking as she took the cloth. She scrubbed at the floor, willing herself to do it faster, better—anything to erase the doubt, the shame that sat heavily on her like a stone.

You watched her for a moment longer, then spoke softly: “You… you don’t have to, I was doing it.”

She bit her lip, refusing to meet your eyes. “I must. It is my duty.”

“Thank you Sullyoon, I appreciate it, but I made this stain, I have to clean it myself,” you said but she didn’t budge and kept her hands glued to the floor. You touched her shoulder to get her to stand up but it was useless. She was convinced. Only then did you notice how skinny she was; you could feel her bones.

You got up and sighed. “Thank you again, Sullyoon. I’ll leave you to it.”

Sullyoon was broken. You understood it from the very first moment you saw her, but you didn’t completely grasp its severity until you started living with her. You felt bad for her and you hated being the reason why she was so restless. 

You were cooking again this evening when it happened again. 

You told her that you’d be the one making the dinner while Sullyoon would be putting away the washed cups. She handled the dishes like they were relics. She cleaned them, dried them, and polished them, giving them the attention that you never did.

Then came the sound.  Small—barely more than a clink—but sharp enough to cut through the soft rhythm of your stirring.

You turned just in time to see the cup slip from her hand and fall. It struck the stone floor with a crisp, brittle crack, then burst—blue and white shards scattering across the tiles like startled birds.

Before you could even speak, she dropped to her knees.

“I—I’m sorry, sir—I’ll pay for it, I swear—I’ll fix it, just please—”
Her voice was thin and panicked, words tumbling too fast. She was already reaching for the pieces, heedless of the sharp edges, her breath shallow and wild. She cut herself. Blood bloomed along her thumb, but she didn’t react, she was in complete panic.

You set the spoon down and stepped forward. “Sullyoon, no…”

The moment your voice reached her, she flinched—hard. As if struck. As if she expected to be. And when you reached out instinctively, just to help, she recoiled with wide, frightened eyes. She stared at your palm as if a blade was being lowered on her neck.

Your hand froze in the air.

And then, slowly, you did something else. You stepped in and wrapped your arms around her—not tightly, not forcefully. Just enough. You couldn’t do anything else. She had to know. She was safe.

She stiffened at first. You were absolutely still and didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” you murmured into her hair. “It’s just a cup. It’s all right.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then—slowly—her fingers, still streaked with blood and trembling, curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt.

You held her in silence. Not to fix everything. Just to let her know nothing else would fall apart today. Not here. Not now. You pulled back only when she did, just enough to meet her eyes.